


Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder; and Spite in the Hand of the Spider-Holder

by DontOffendTheBees



Category: Wooden Overcoats (Podcast)
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Angst with a Happy Ending, British Comedy, Curses, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Meetings, Gallows Humor, Humor, M/M, Morbid, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Spiders, WIP, Witch Curses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-08-04 01:26:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16337090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DontOffendTheBees/pseuds/DontOffendTheBees
Summary: "Don't think we get those sorts of spiders on Piffling, Ms. D," the man- Eric, apparently, ooh, what ashiftyname- assures her, leaning in close to inspect Rudyard like a bug under a microscope. Which, to be fair, is rather closer to the truth than Rudyard would like. "We're a fair way from Australia!""You never know these days," she says sagely, leveling Rudyard with her trademarked suspicious squint. "All sorts of things stowing away aboard ferries and hot air balloons and whatnot. One never can tell what might tumble out of the cargo hold..."For once, Agatha,Rudyard muses, returning this strange man's gaze with an eight-eyed glower of his own.I couldn't agree more.In which Rudyard is cursed to be even more unpopular than he's accustomed to, and Chapman is a charming newcomer with a soft spot for creepy crawlies.





	1. Waiter, There’s A Spider In My Sherbet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I'm here with the random transformation curse AU that no one asked for.
> 
> So, first off: this is a WIP. I'm sorrrrryyyyy I know I should have learned my lesson about posting fics before I'm finished with them but it's just so dispiriting and a test of my very limited patience to keep these things under my hat! I understand completely if no one wants to read this til it's done as I have NO idea how frequently I'll get to update and there may be some long waits ahead, but if anyone does come along for the ride I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> Secondly, a lil' more background: this is just a totally random idea that occurred to me very early in my listening of this podcast about how useless Rudyard would be with even _more_ ungainly limbs. It kind of spun out and took on a life of it's own! Reckon we're looking at at _least_ five chapters, slow burn Chapyard, even _slower_ burn Rudyard/Self-Esteem, but we'll get there! And as for my appearance headcanons in this fics, they're pretty much what a talked about in the notes of my last Chapyard fic- Rudyard is actually tall but hunched to fuck (and in this case, also a spider), Eric is smaller but confident and basically looks like a beautiful blonde Tan France, etc. You'll figure it out! And as for when/if this ties in with the canon timeline, uhhhh... not really? I mean, it's an AU, in that Rudyard first meets Eric as a literal spider, but there's nods to some canon events which maybe took place but differently... idk man I'm just an old man having a slice of fun pie. Just have fun!
> 
> Right, that's enough from me- read on, and enjoy yourselves! ^^

It's Thursday morning, and there is little life to be found in _Funn Funerals_ ; which one might come to expect in such a business, but dead people seldom get buried without a living person or two to pop them in the ground. But today the living are in short supply. Somewhere in the bowels of the mortuary, Antigone Funn tinkers with her new embalming fluid recipe, apron smelling strongly of citrus and cinnamon. Behind the reception desk, Georgie Crusoe dozes with her feet aloft and her freckled face hidden under a racy book stolen from Antigone’s vast and terrifying coat pockets. And in the corner of the room, a spider skulks in a twisted web of its own clumsy design.  
  
The spider's name is Rudyard Funn, and skulking is one of his favourite past times.  
  
He fiddles absently with a loose strand of silver webbing, scowling- insomuch as it's possible for a spider to scowl- at the empty parlour. Fact is, skulking is rather unsatisfying with nothing to observe and no people to silently judge, and he's bored stiff. Ever since _Chapman’s,_ that bloody rival parlour opened up across the road, the only customers they've had are the odd confused old woman looking for the chemist's. In the old days, Rudyard would have followed the daft old dears around a bit, in the hopes they might pop their clogs with him in swooping distance, but for obvious reasons that's not so feasible anymore, and Georgie always showed distaste towards that aspect of the job. So he has no choice but to let the potential business totter away while he watches dust gather on his web. He briefly considers going and bothering his sister, but Antigone threatened to swat him if he ever went in her morgue again. And Georgie doesn’t tend to take well to being woken from afternoon naps by the pitter patter of spider feet on her face. So, he's on his own. But what else is new?  
  
"Oh, you're not on your own!"  
  
Rudyard nearly jumps out of his fuzzy carapace. "Madeleine!" He hisses, clicking his mandibles irritably. "Don't creep up on me like that!"  
  
"I wasn't creeping- you were just talking to yourself again," his mousy friend declares, peering at him over her half-moons (fashioned from an old paperclip, with his help, back when he had fingers and a mite more muscle mass. And he means a _mite_ more) from her comfy knot hole in the nearby rafter. It's one of her favourite spots to write, for much the same reason as his web is his favourite spot to lurk; the snooping potential is otherwise unrivalled.  
  
"Blast,"  he mutters to himself- sadly proving her point- as he fusses with his web. Perhaps he should take up knitting, then at least he might get a blanket or a nice pair of slippers out of his anxious fiddling. Or four pairs, ideally.  
  
"Oh, don't be so down, Rudyard," Madeleine chides softly, resting her notebook- or rather, the pad of bright pink mini sticky notes she uses as a notebook- in her handkerchief-covered lap. "It could be a lot worse!"  
  
He laughs, bitterly, though it really comes out more as a rapid chattering of his pincers.  
  
"Well, it _could_ be!"  
  
"Oh, _please_ ," he scoffs, waving his spindly forelegs at her in irritation. "How could my situation possibly be any worse? Go on, hmm, enlighten me. I'm all ears- figuratively speaking. Physically, I'm really more legs than anything else."

“Well…” Madeleine tuts, considering, and shrugging her little furry shoulders. “It could be raining.”

Rudyard turns his attention to the window with a suspicious squint. But despite Madeleine’s flagrant flirtation with the ancient laws of Sod that govern his existence, the sky remains, for the moment, a smooth and non-threatening grey. Positively blue by Piffling standards. He averts his gaze slowly, taking her point with a hefty pinch of salt. “Well, rain or no rain, it’s hardly sunshine and roses. Antigone’s been just _impossible_ lately, if she doesn’t get someone to embalm soon she may just resort to insect taxidermy.”

“Rudyard,” Madeleine says, shaking her head fondly.

“Oh, you _know_ she would.”

“...Technically, you’re an arachnid.”

He gapes at her, horrified. “Oh, good heavens… I didn’t even _consider_ that she might do it to _me!_ Right, that bloody well sorts it- I’ve got to go and find her a body before she starts looking for eight-legged alternatives.”

“Oh, Rudyard, be sensible.”

“I am being sensible! I’m so full of sense I’m silly with it.”

“Dear… not to be rude, but even if you _do_ find a body, how do you plan on fetching it back here?” Madeleine reasons, waving a paw at his scuttling little body. “I’m afraid you’re a bit stuck for size- even a very _small_ body would be-”

“Well, then I’ll scurry back here and report it to Georgie,” he argues, shuddering as he produces the thread necessary to lower himself to the floor. Disgusting habit. What ever happened to the good old days of having nails to bite? “Or I’ll… I’ll roll it onto a skateboard or something. I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

Madeleine, quite fed up with teaching a formerly large person the pitfalls and limitations of smallness, simply shakes her head and returns to her writing.

And Rudyard, being a person who felt about two inches tall long _before_ his outsides shrunk to match, scuttles out Madeleine’s mouse hole in the front door with his spidery face held high, much as he would have done in the days when he could reach the handle; with the bull-headed tenacity of a weed oblivious to the pavement.

 

* * *

 

Piffling Vale remains, as ever, utterly immune to the whims of time and the uncertainty of change. God, how Rudyard envies it. What he wouldn't give to go back to an existence as dull and unremarkable as that of this village that time forgot.

He scuttles through the alleys and cobbled streets, safe in the knowledge that no one round here has a car with which to run him over. The only type that would be small enough to navigate the labyrinthine crosshatch of ancient ginnels would be a tiny little circus car- and people had rather gone off those since that business with the dead clowns. Still, he keeps at least a couple of eyes out for scooters, skateboards and the purposeful feet of Agatha Doyle.  
  
Speaking of whom...  
  
From his vantage point in an under-watered geranium, he eyes the Broken Tooth wistfully. The lights are on, the bell above the door tinkling merrily in the wake of a small child ducking out as she nibbles on a...  
  
_Sherbet Dip-Dab..._  
  
Oh, god. Infernal temptation. Has she no tact, flaunting her sweets in the street? What happened to devouring them in the shop, like a respectable human being? What happened to dropping your stray sherbet on the counter for Agatha to clean up, thus giving her something to do with her day aside from pinning petty crimes and the odd circumstantial murder on hapless undertakers just trying to go about their day to day business? Honestly, the youth of today. Some people just don't _deserve_ sherbet.  
  
The question is, does _he_ deserve it?  
  
...Probably not.  
  
But does he want it enough to risk life and spidery limb for a sneaky lick of the stuff?  
  
He's crossing the road before he can dignify that ludicrous question with an answer.

 

* * *

 

He was going to be in and out, quick as a flash. Creeping unnoticed through the shadows like a... well, like a spider, he supposed. In, sneaky sniff, and out before anyone could be any the wiser.

But if there's one thing he should have counted on not changing, it was Agatha Doyle's keen (paranoid, you might say) investigative eye.  
  
"Thief!" She screeches, rolling up her newspaper with the eye holes cut out. "Pilfering plunderer! I'll show _you_ that crime doesn't pay, scurrilous scavenger!"  
  
So this is how it ends. Face covered in sherbet, legs frozen in fear, about to become intimately acquainted with the business end of a rolled-up newspaper as an angry Piffling resident swings it towards his head, full-page advert for _Chapman’s_ first.  
  
...To be fair, if he takes away the fibrous fur on said face, six of said legs, and replaces the newspaper with a cricket bat, it's about what he expected.  
  
And all he wanted was a bloody Dip-Dab.  
  
He screws his eyes shut, all eight of them, and wonders if Antigone will bother to embalm his flattened spider corpse as he waits for the final blow.  
  
And waits.  
  
And waits...  
  
Still waiting....  
  
...Hm. Talk about poor customer service.  
  
"Bit extreme don't you think, Agatha?"  
  
"Ooh, I can't _stand_ the things- sneaking around, lurking, spying with all those beady eyes. Suspicious, one could say."  
  
Rudyard opens said beady eyes a crack, mildly irritated at her for drawing out the unpleasant moment and ready to give the new interrupting person the dirty look of a lifetime.  
  
But the person, who'd already established themselves as an interfering nuisance and a hindrance to the best laid plans of spiders and sweet shop owners, throws a spanner in that one by being utterly, breathtakingly, hair-raisingly _gorgeous_.  
  
"Oh, come on, Miss Doyle," the obnoxiously handsome man laughs, warm and good-natured as he carefully directs the hand holding the newspaper down to her lap. "I'm sure it's more scared of you than you are of it."  
  
Rudyard, apparently now going thoroughly ignored, splutters indignantly. "Well, I never..."  
  
But of course, neither of them hear nor understand his protests. Bloody oblivious humans.  
  
"How about I pop him outside for you, Agatha, get him out of your hair?" the handsome prat offers, patting her shoulder companionably.  
  
"Oh, thank you, Eric," she coos, sounding fond in a way she never does around Rudyard, her _best_ customer. Well, what's loyalty compared to a chiselled bone structure, eh? Unbelievable. "But do watch it doesn't bite you- that'd be even worse for your health than all this sugar. Could make you burst like popping candy!"  
  
"Don't think we get those sorts of spiders on Piffling, Ms. D," the man- _Eric_ , apparently, ooh, what a _shifty_ name- assures her, leaning in close to inspect Rudyard like a bug under a microscope. Which, to be fair, is rather closer to the truth than Rudyard would like. "We're a fair way from Australia!"  
  
"You never know these days," she says sagely, leveling Rudyard with her trademarked suspicious squint. "All sorts of things stowing away aboard ferries and hot air balloons and whatnot. One never can tell what might tumble out of the cargo hold..."  
  
_For once, Agatha,_ Rudyard muses, returning this strange man's gaze with an eight-eyed glower of his own. _I couldn't agree more._  
  
"Looks like a good old-fashioned English spider to me," Eric says, and before Rudyard can blink he's suddenly got him hemmed in between both hands, closing them over him like honey-gold dome.  
  
"Wha- _unhand_ _me_ , you beautiful busybody! I shan't be scooped! I said _I shan't be-_ argh!"  
  
But Eric, in flagrant defiance of his declaration, scoops him nonetheless. And before he knows it Rudyard is teetering on his many unsteady little feet in the small, warm cave of his cupped palms, and trying to maintain his righteous bluster despite the fact that this odious man's skin is softer than any adult man's has a right to be.  
  
Well, this is a new low.  
  
"Thank you, Eric, dear," the muffled voice of Agatha sing-songs, over the heartbreaking sound of the open Dip-Dab packet he'd touched being crumpled up and binned.  
  
"That's just fine, Agatha- I'll be back in a tick! Mind boxing up half a dozen of those Memento Mori for me?"  
  
"Of course! In fact, let's make it a dozen, no extra charge," she says, voice growing further and further away. "It's not like anyone else is buying the things..."  
  
"Brilliant, thank you Ms. D!" Eric calls, the swish of the door and chime of the bell breaking his sentence.  
  
Annoyed and defeated, Rudyard hunches gloomily in his surprisingly fragrant prison (what is that scent? Coconut?), feeling a tad motion sick. It feels like a long, long time before sunlight peeks through slender fingers as they open up, transitioning from a wall to bars to a blissfully open window.  
  
"Alright, chum," Eric's cheerful voice declares, and as Rudyard’s eyes adjust to the light he realises he's being offered on an outstretched palm to a nearby shrubbery. "Reckon this is where you get off."  
  
"Gladly," Rudyard mutters, scuttling to the end of Eric's fingers and hopping clumsily onto the nearest leaf. It feels awfully cold in comparison, and he shudders involuntarily. "How _humiliating_..."  
  
"I'd avoid Ms. Doyle if I were you- no guarantees I'll be around to save you next time!"  
  
"I don't need _saving_ ," Rudyard lies, scrambling for purchase on his precarious perch.  
  
"You take care, little fella," Eric says- condescending twerp.  
  
Rudyard turns to give him one last good glare to really send him off. Of course, this has the unfortunate side effect of giving himself a good eyeful of the man. Of his perfect blonde hair shining in the muted sunlight. Of his flawless skin practically glowing, smooth and rich like a top-shelf oak coffin. Of his _eyes_ , glittering with good humour, blue as the bay in summer.  
  
Eric smiles, radiant as the sun, and gives Rudyard a jaunty little salute.  
  
"Enjoy yourself!"  
  
And then in one fluid, confident movement he's straightening up, turning on his heel, and swanning back to the sweet shop, the bell tinkling cheerfully in his wake like a choir of angels.  
  
Rudyard glares a his retreating back, fidgeting in place. "...Yes, well. Don't offer _me_ a sweet or anything. Arsehole."  
  
And then he, sadly with rather less grace than the departed stranger, is scurrying home in haste; with powdered sugar on his fluffy cheeks and the phantom warmth of an enveloping hand on his mind.

 

* * *

 

His day didn't get better from there. In fact, after hurrying home having had quite enough excitement and giving Madeleine a cursory greeting that was more grunt than glad tidings, he’d retreated hastily to his web and spent a long, uneventful afternoon thinking and skulking. And not necessarily in that order. 

He got so into it, in fact, that it's quite some time before he realises Madeleine's trying to attract his attention from her writing nook. Reluctantly, he shoves aside bitter musings about sherbet and big blue eyes, and gives her his almost-undivided attention. "Yes, Madeleine, what is it?"  
  
"The time, Rudyard, the time!" She taps her little wrist, where a tiny watch would be if someone were to take initiative and make them in mouse sizes, and waves at the window.  
  
He glances that way, and notices it's rather darker out than he'd expected. "Oh, right, yes..."  
  
Picking his way across the dusty spokes of his ramshackle web, he hops onto the wall and scuttles as fast as he can, no time to spin a strand for abseiling; if he doesn't get down quickly he has a rather unpleasant drop in his immediate future.  
  
He doesn't _quite_ reach the floor before the sun sets finally behind the horizon, and a familiar wave of static freezes him from head to sticky toe.  
  
"Bugg- _argh_ !"  
  
Rudyard hits the old wood floor with a mighty _crash_ , certainly not the sort of racket one would expect to hear at the tumble of an innocuous little house spider. But Rudyard is not an innocuous person; and at this moment in time, he's certainly not a spider.  
  
With his two gangly legs strewn up the wall like higgledy-piggledy brooms in a cupboard and his arms spreadeagled to match, Rudyard Funn glares with two very dark, very human eyes at his sorry excuse for a web in the corner. "Terrific."  
  
"Evenin', sir."  
  
He turns his head, but makes no further move. Why bother? "Evening, Georgie."  
  
Georgie, from her comfy chair behind the reception desk, salutes him jauntily. "Didn't quite make it, eh?"  
  
"Well, you could have let me know the sun was going down..."  
  
"Sorry. Was nappin'."  
  
He narrows his eyes at her. "That's hardly professional."  
  
"Neither's lyin' on the floor or eatin' flies."  
  
"...Touché."  
  
"What on _earth_ is going on up here?!"  
  
"Oh, terrific, Antigone’s here too," Rudyard mutters dryly.  
  
"Oh, it's just you- _Christ alive, Rudyard, put some clothes on!"_  
  
"Can't a man be nude in his own home?" He glances to the side, satisfied to see that Antigone’s arm-crossing powers are hindered with one hand covering her eyes.  
  
"This is a place of _business_ , for goodness’ sake!" She hisses, flapping her hand at the door that hasn't seen a lick of potential business in weeks. "Get up and cover yourself, man!"  
  
"I'll get up when I'm good and ready, thank you."  
  
"Here you go, boss," comes Georgie's voice, followed by a warm but slightly itchy weight as she drapes his favourite (and only) blanket across him.  
  
"Thank you, Georgie."  
  
"Don't encourage him!" Antigone beseeches, in that annoying high-pitched way of hers.  
  
"Oi, I don't wanna see it any more than you do."  
  
"When we're all _quite_ finished body shaming me in my own front room," he huffs, sitting up with a wince as his freshly reformed bones click under the strain. "I could _murder_ a slice of toast."  
  
"Perhaps you could murder something else so I have something to _do_ for a change," says Antigone darkly, helping him to his feet with her thin fingers hooking around his upper arms like talons.  
  
"If you have any ideas for how I'd go about killing a person with not a drop of venom to my name, I would _love_ to hear it."  
  
"Why does it always come back to murder with you two...?" Georgie mutters, throwing her hands in the air as she tromps back to her desk.  
  
"Anyway, toast," Rudyard says tersely, freeing himself from his sister's clutches. "Chop chop."  
  
Antigone looks at him, wild-eyed, although to be fair that's a semi permanent state of affairs with her. "I'm not making you _toast_ , Rudyard- we haven't even anything to make it _with_. We ran out of bread last week, you know that."  
  
"Ugh. Well, what _do_ we have?"  
  
"Debt and malnutrition."  
  
"Yes, evidently- I meant for dinner."  
  
"Carrots."  
  
_"Carrots?”_  
  
"Antigone, don't wind 'im up," Georgie calls over, looking about as tired as Rudyard feels. "We only have _one_ carrot."  
  
"Yes, indeed. Car _rot_ . That's what's for dinner."  
  
Georgie sighs, kicking her heels against the chair legs. "It's pretty old."  
  
"Slightly old."  
  
"Looks like a shrivelled finger."  
  
"Excellent," Rudyard grumbles, tugging his blanket about himself like a toga. "And the blasted sweet shop will be shut by now."  
  
"We couldn't afford sweets anyway," Antigone snaps.  
  
"Oh, of _course_ , I must have forgot in the five bloody seconds since you last pointed it out."  
  
"This isn't a _joke_ , Rudyard!"  
  
"Yes I bloody _know_ , Antigone- because that would mean I would actually be _enjoying_ myself for a change and we can't have _that!_ "  
  
She stares at him- they both do, her and Georgie. Surprised by the outburst, it seems. Rudyard is as well, to be perfectly honest-  _enjoying himself_ had never quite made it to the top of his docket before, even in passing remarks. Certainly it's an unusual thing to come out with in the heat of the moment.  
  
_"Enjoy yourself!"_  
  
He scowls, and shakes that despicably cheerful echo from his head. The phantom taste of sherbet on his lips is rather harder to displace. "Well. I'm going to have a bath, since not _one_ of you has thought to dust this floor," he says, turning his nose up snootily as he flounces from the room.  
  
"I'll do it tomorrow," he hears Georgie call, followed shortly by a much quieter: _"Maybe one day I'll even get_ paid _for it."_  
  
Well. That's quite enough socialising for one night.

 

* * *

 

Dinner, in the end, is one third of said wrinkly carrot, and a few minutes of flicking through an ancient cookbook to read recipes for meat pies and use his imagination. And as Georgie makes her way home to her Nan and Antigone slinks off to bed, he sits wide awake, gazing vacantly from his upstairs window at the sleeping streets. 

He seldom has it in him to sleep at nights, not when he could be appreciating a few quality hours with his own four limbs. But with nowhere to go and no one to see, what else is there to do but look out on the dark and quiet from his _own_ dark and quiet, lurking pale and silent as a ghost and watching the square as it lies spread out beneath him; cold, empty, and silent as the grave. Much like himself.  
  
Goodness. Being cursed has made him so _maudlin_.  
  
_Oh, that's not true,_ he scolds himself, restless fingers tapping on the grimy glass. _You were_ always _a miserable sod._  
  
Across the street, a light flickers on. He watches with detached curiosity as another follows, and another, three little glows behind closed curtains on the upper floor of _Chapman’s_. Within a minute they're turning off again, in the reverse of the order in which they turned on. Probably that Chapman person had to get up for something. Although why he’d felt the need to turn on all the lights for such a brief excursion is beyond Rudyard. Perhaps he's chronically clumsy. Or paranoid- maybe he's on the run, or being tormented by poltergeists.  
  
_God_ , listen to him. Making up stories about his mysterious business rival just to fill up his empty night. Pathetic.  
  
He spins away from the window in a huff, pressing his back to the cool glass as he turns his attention to his room. Sadly, it's even emptier than the square, every decent item within having been sold to make ends meet- and every non-decent item having been hacked apart to use as coffin materials or firewood. Not that it matters, he supposes, given that he hasn't slept in here in a good three years. Still, it's nice, on occasion, to feel one has somewhere to go. Somewhere full of his own possessions, his own interests. Somewhere that belongs to _him_ , and him alone.  
  
...oh, god. It's his dusty cobweb, isn't it?  
  
He groans and turns back to the window, deciding that making up stories about people he's never met might actually be _less_ pathetic than the alternative. No further signs of life from across the square. Chapman must be asleep. Lucky git.  
  
What is he _like_ , he wonders?  
  
He came into their shop, apparently, shortly after moving from god knows where. But Rudyard himself had been dozing fitfully in an old mug at the time, and missed it altogether. Antigone had been _very_ unhelpful in describing the competition, going all red and blushy and useless when questioned. To this day, all he knows about Chapman is his name (surname only, of course, because he can’t even trust his sister to dig _that_ much deeper), that he's someone his sister considers attractive enough to be foolish over, and that he's quote-unquote: 'a m-man person'. Hardly valuable intelligence. And Georgie refuses to go and snoop for more- she'd taken rather a dislike to Chapman on their first meeting, it would seem. Yet another reason for which he prefers her over his own traitor sister; although he does wish she'd temper her no doubt well-warranted distaste to go and scope out the man's shady operation. Find something really _juicy_ they can use to shunt him out of business.  
  
He peers at _Chapman’s_ a few minutes longer, eyes running over the fresh red brick and polished sign and tasteful potted plants on the stoop. It's a pretty place, all shiny and new, all done up. But really, what can they do that _Funn Funerals_ can't? Some flashy tricks maybe, a bit of a glitz and glam? It's a fad, nothing more. Before too long, Piffling will realise once again that no one needs all the bells and whistles. That a good, practical funeral is about one thing and one thing only: getting the body in the coffin in the ground on time. And then, _then_ they'll be back at the top of the pecking order.  
  
Still, the convenient placement and subsequent discovery of a rat infestation in their competitor's no doubt state-of-the-art mortuary would certainly hurry things along a bit. God knows how that would go down with the Piffling residents if a _spider in a sweet shop_ was enough to incite a panic.  
  
In the ideal world of this plan, of course, there would be no _Erics_ there to calm the situation with their sparkly blue eyes, and steady voices and soft, rich skin scented with coconut oils, and inhuman beauty powerful enough to erase the very _existence_ of any kind of pest from the frantic customers' minds.

 _Now, see here, Funn,_ his very vocal inner critic says again, just _full_ of handy admonishments tonight, it would seem. _You’re just a selfish twit who can’t handle being indebted to other people._

“I’m not _indebted_ to _anyone!”_ He protests, crossing his arms defiantly. “It’s not like I _asked_ him to get involved.”

_And yet if he didn’t, you’d be a smudge on the classifieds._

“You make it sound as if that’s a _bad_ thing,” Rudyard sighs bleakly, rubbing his chilly arms. It’s all for nought, of course- he can’t remember the last time he had the slightest drop of warmth in his body.

 _Well…_ that traitorous voice muses, alongside thoughts of soft, gentle hands cradling his cold little body with care. _That isn’t_ strictly _true, is it?_

“Oh… sod off.”

He’ll tell that voice _one_ thing for nought; if he never sees Eric, Saviour of Spiders again, it will be too soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, what do you think so far? Comments are much MUCH appreciated- as is chatting to me about this bonkers podcast on tumblr (dont-offend-the-bees), so by all means drop me a line!!! And I'll see you... when I see you.
> 
> This was a bad idea.


	2. Down Came The Hoover And Booted The Spider Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!!! Briefly!!!
> 
> Yeah, sorry, I kinda posted that first chapter with nothing else except an outline done and no posting schedule in mind, and since I have two deadlines/posting schedules for two very big DGHDA fics coming up over the next few months I'm not sure that's gonna improve for a while. But, I got another chapter done, and it's kind of another groundworky/teaser chapter in some ways, so it'll hopefully leave you wanting more but it won't be a cliffhanger. This may be the last Wooden Overcoats thing I post for quite some time, and then I'm hoping to maybe do one or two little History Boys thing before I devote myself to Dirk for a while, so stay tuned if you're into those!
> 
> So yeah, enjoy the dumb spider boy! Sorta. Oddly enough this became a chapter of the Spider AU with errrr, no actual spidering. But that's better for the interpersonal communication and banter so we're going with it.

 

_It all began one not so very special day, a long, long time ago... Three years, to be specific._

_Funn Funerals had been a hub of activity then- although no more cheerful for it. You see, the only people who deigned to visit were those grieving loved ones and planning their funerals- or, on a few occasions, those angry that the funeral they were given resulted in violence and the death of_ further _loved ones._

_Rudyard Funn had grown quite used to both sorts of customers, and more than capable of shouldering past the negative attitude to the matter of payment and future arrangements. After all, there was hardly any reason to act on their criticisms; with no other funeral home on the entire island, where else could they go? There was no competition, and so no need to compete- and Rudyard was incredibly averse to putting in effort where he saw no need. As his father had taught him, funerals were about one thing and one thing only: punctuality. As far as he was concerned, as long as he got the body in the coffin in the ground on time everything else was rather superfluous._

_Unfortunately, that reasoning didn't tend to go down well with the disappointed customers._

_"I'm sorry, Miss Coniston, but I'm afraid that's what happens at these sort of events- death can have a rather unpleasant effect on those left behind, as I'm sure you know," he said, with no attempt at a placating smile; it tended to upset people coming from him._

_"'Unpleasant effect'?!" the woman with a diminutive frame ill-matched to her impressive lung capacity shrieked. "My nephew's been crushed by a bloody gravestone!"_

_"Ah, yes, grief, Miss Coniston. No doubt the poor lad wanted to be with his dear departed grandmother."_

_"He didn't want nothin'- he got chucked at it!"_

_"Well, that's really more his brother's fault for doing the chucking, wouldn't you say?"_

_It took rather longer than Rudyard would like to calm Mrs Coniston down. Although to be quite fair, anything longer than a nice, efficient thirty seconds would be longer than he likes. And he didn't 'calm her down' so much as offend her into storming out and taking her anger somewhere else. But it had the same immediate effect on him, which was blissful silence in the shop, so he'd take it and the credit as well. After all, it wasn't as if anyone was watching._

_But someone_ was _watching. You see, I was gathering material for my book- Memoirs of a Funeral House Mouse, now available on audiobook as read by Stephen Fly- at the time, and was hurriedly scribbling down everything that had transpired on the back of a receipt for sherbet fountains. I’d been rather worried about presenting Rudyard Funn as a main character; though I had grown rather fond of him, I realised many of his actions might make him seem... unsympathetic. Less of a protagonist, more of an antihero- and in the story of his own life, practically a villain. But I stuck with him- such a complex character was bound to bring a bit of grit to my book, and according to the rejection letters of several publishers, I could certainly stand to add a bit of edge to my writing style. Not that there's anything wrong with being 'twee' or 'homey', in my opinion, but you do what you must to get by in this world._

_...Oh, crumbs, where was I?_

_Oh, yes! Rudyard, having seen off his unhappy customer, was treating himself to a good grumble and a little sit down._

_"About time," he muttered slumping into Georgie's regular seat behind the counter and reaching into his trouser pocket for the emergency Dip-Dab he kept there at all times._

_"Yes, I believe so."_

_Rudyard yelped and started, showering his threadbare jumper with sherbet dust. I must admit, I was startled myself- for all my careful observations, I hadn't noticed another body present. I nearly dropped my pencil! But I followed the voice and the double-taking face of Rudyard to the source, and saw her. A old woman, with long silver hair and a stoop to rival Rudyard’s, although that was about where the similarities ended. Like the Funns, she seemed to have a penchant for black and vaguely tattered clothing. Unlike the Funns, she had a rather small, button-like nose, round apple cheeks, and blue eyes so pale they almost faded to grey. She was, without a doubt, the most interesting-looking person to ever set foot in the funeral parlour._

_I sharpened my pencil._

_“Now look here,” Rudyard huffed in his standard greeting, dusting off the sherbet. He was never one to sugar coat himself, be it his appearance or his personality. “We’re closed. If you want to book a service you’ll have to stagger on another night I’m afra-”_

_“I don’t need a service, dear,” she said, tottering a little closer. She had a rather peculiar way of walking, and seemed to be a bit out of practice. “But I think you might.”_

_“...Is that a threat?”_

_“I’m not here to threaten you, Rudyard,” she cooed, now at the desk and growing closer, leaning towards Rudyard with an ominous groan of her stooped back not unlike a tree bowing in the wind. “I’m here to help you.”_

_Rudyard, appearing more on edge by the second, matched her movement in the opposite direction, looking down his prominent nose at the mysterious interloper with narrowed eyes. “...No, thank you.”_

_“But you haven’t even heard what I’m offering yet!”_

_“That won’t be necessary, goodbye.”_

_“Mister Funn…”_

_Rudyard, looking more unsettled by the second, leaned back and bellowed over his shoulder: “Georgie!”_

_“Oh, no need to have me thrown out, dearie, I’ll be on my way. But first…!”_

_She reached into the folds of her formless clothing, causing Rudyard to bristle and cower even further. For my part, I scurried up the telephone wire and continue my observations from behind the handset, should the need to dial any sort of emergency service arise. I wasn’t entirely sure what good it would do, as my hands were too small for the buttons, but I hoped it might come as some small comfort to Rudyard, at least._

_But fortunately, she didn’t emerge from the mass of black fabric with anything that looked like a deadly weapon. Instead, all she revealed was a handful of dust. So common a sight in Funn Funerals that Rudyard actually looked, to my eyes, a tad disappointed._

_“...Is that it?” he asked, eyes narrowed in caution._

_The woman offered a grin, wide and toothy and even more unsettling than one of Rudyard’s own, and held her dusty palm up in front of her face. Both myself and Rudyard, quite against our better judgement, leaned closer for a better look._

_Which is when she pursed her lips, and blew the dust straight into Rudyard’s face._

_He reeled back, spluttering, arms windmilling for balance as his spindly body threatened to capsize. Sadly I couldn’t offer him a hand, given that I was coughing on a bit of displaced desk dust myself; that and I weighed a little under an ounce. But he steadied himself on the back of the chair, regaining his balance- though none of his composure- as the dust quite literally settled. “What on-?!” he coughed around a dusty throat._

_“There. That should do the trick,” said the woman, unhelpfully. Swiping her hands clean against each other, she beamed merrily, entirely unfazed by Rudyard’s indignant puffing. She leaned over the desk once more, Rudyard too distracted to retreat this time, squeezed his shoulders in her gnarled hands, and met his eyes in a gaze so intense I could feel it from my vantage point two feet below._

_“Our perceptions do not always align with reality. What a cruel world that would be,” she said, soft as a whisper, eyes sparking like a livewire. “But for now, dear, you are what you perceive yourself to be; so reevaluate your perception, Rudyard Funn.”_

_She squeezed him once more, and Rudyard didn’t struggle, seemingly entranced in the electric glow of her eyes. She smiled, and kissed him gently upon the forehead._

_“Good luck.”_

_And in the blink of an eye, it was as if she’d never been there at all._

_Rudyard blinked slowly, several times, as if clambering from a deep sleep. He had a peculiar glazed quality to his eyes that lasted a few more seconds before he finally ousted it, cheeks colouring as clarity returned._

_“Hmph,” he huffed, shaking his head and setting loose a small cloud of dust from the strands. He had less luck in brushing off his jumper, making a small noise of annoyance at the dust particles mingled with the sherbet and locked in the well-worn weave. “What a bloody liberty.”_

_Of course, being a considerate friend, I scurried up his sleeve and enquired after his well-being. To which he rolled his eyes, petted my head, and told me to stop fussing- he could survive a minor dusting incident by a harmless travelling lunatic, thank you very much. Placing me helpfully back on the desk, he turned on his heel and slunk towards the back rooms, no doubt with every intention of changing his jumper (and, when he realised he had no other imminently available, turning it inside out for extended wear)._

_He did, however, dart back to the front door the slide the bolt across and flip the sign to ‘Closed’. Clearly, the encounter had not left him unaffected._

_But the full_ extent _of that affect… well. That, neither one of us would realise until morning, when Rudyard’s customary fall out of bed would be significantly steeper than usual._

 

-Extract from Madeleine’s _Mysterious Memoirs of a Funeral House Mouse,_ a

Halloween limited edition published by Random Mouse, 2022

 

* * *

 

Since the sherbet debacle Rudyard had been, if possible, even _more_ withdrawn than usual. Even Madeleine, who always liked to give him space and respected his unique methods of coping, had on several occasions attempted to start conversations and lure him out of his web. Attempts which seldom yielded more than a roll of eight disinterested eyes.

Rudyard, however, was quite happy with the current status quo. By day he sulks sullen in his web. By night, he sulks sullen in his bed. Makes no difference, in the grand scheme of things. And if he doesn't move, he doesn't burn energy, and if he doesn't burn energy he doesn't get hungry for sweet treats that could get him killed, or throw him in the path of obnoxiously handsome busybodies with soft hands. It's a perfect system.

Until Georgie goes and ruins it by actually doing her job.

"Woops," she says, in her usual flat fashion over the roar of the rickety old hoover. "Sorry, sir."

Rudyard stares with his two human eyes at his corner, where up until recently his web had resided. Recently in this case being two seconds ago, when a fatal sweep of the hoover hose had eradicated it from the face of the earth and the wall. "Georgie! How _could_ you?!"

"Sorry, wasn't thinkin'."

"You weren't think-?! Oh, well, no problem whatsoever, Georgie, it's not as if you hoovered up anything _important_ , it's only my _bloody home,_ after all."

She looks at him sideways, pushing her infernal chewing gum from cheek to cheek. "We're standing in your house right now."

"A _house_ is not a _home_ , Georgie, keep up," he bites out, fisting his hands in his hair. It was a rather sentimental statement by his standards, but one does say ludicrous things in times of distress. Terrific. His daytime sulking den, obliterated in the blink of an eye. Took him _weeks_ to make that. Constructing the things is really not as easy as the spiders in the attic make it look. And those chaps had hardly been supportive of his endeavours. "Have to start from bloody scratch now, won't I. Damn it all."

Georgie, rather than looking suitably chastened, switches off the hoover with its customary kick and crosses her arms. "Right, that's enough. I'm sorry, sir, but this has gone too far. You're wastin' away in here."

"Oh, stop fussing, I'm perfectly-"

"If you say 'fine', I'll whack you over the head with this hoover."

Rudyard splutters indignantly, leveling her with his very best authoritative glower. "Georgie! Employees can't threaten management, it's not on."

As usual, it has no effect. "Then I'm threatening you as a friend. A friend who hasn't been paid in six months and is sick of watching you faff around feelin' sorry for yourself. You need to _get out_ , sir. Get some fresh air, see nature, go... I dunno, _fly a kite_."

"Why on _earth_ would I...?"

"Ugh, I don't know, I'm just sayin' whatever really. But you can't hang around in 'ere letting life pass you by, sir. You need to go be in the world, meet people, _make friends_. Friends that aren't mice- no offense, Madeleine."

From a spot on the desk where she enjoys reading by lamplight in the evening, Madeleine squeaks. Rudyard, being attuned to his rodent friend in a way few could boast, understood it to mean ' _none taken, it's what I keep telling him_.' With a betrayed look, he translates: "She says lots taken and you're off the Christmas card list."

Georgie looks at him in a decidedly unconvinced manner, and her stoically crossed arms remain unwavering.

Rudyard, already feeling control of the situation slipping from his grasp, fumbles desperately for a handhold. "It's the middle of the night! Who do you expect me to befriend, the bats?"

"Dunno- but you need the fresh air, sir, friends or no friends." She uncrosses her arms but seems no less immovable for it, flapping her hands at him in the universal (and to him very familiar) gesture for ' _shoo_ '. "Go on, then. Be free. Go mope about outside for a bit."

"Georgie, if you don't desist I'll be forced to-"

"What? Suspend me? Fire me? Stop paying me?" She raises her eyebrows. "Got me there, sir."

Rudyard scowls at her, crossing his own arms. Compared to her iron barricade, they feel rather more akin to a rickety picket fence. Really, the battle was over before it begun, but he was hardly going to admit it. He may have precious little in this world, may have bid farewell to his money and bodily autonomy and even his dignity long ago, but he still has his pride.

...Bits of it.

" _Fine_ ," he grits through clenched teeth, stomping his foot in a strop. "I'll go and walk the streets alone in the middle of the night, shall I?"

"Sounds like a plan."

"Well. Suppose if I die we'll _finally_ have some business."

"You're not gonna die, sir."

"Well, a mugging's certainly not outside the realm of possibility."

"You're not gonna get _mugged_ , sir," she says, patience evidently wearing thin. "This is bloody _Piffling_. Anyway, you look like a homeless bloke. Don't reckon they'd bother."

"Now, look here-!"

"Bye, sir," she drones over his protests, bundling his jacket into his arms and his person out of the door. "Have fun."

" _Shan't_ , thank you."

She rolls her eyes right before slamming the door in his face.

Grumbling at it, Rudyard shudders and shrugs on his jacket- it's altogether too threadbare to make much difference in this autumnal chill.

And when the rain starts, it doesn't stand a chance.

Turning his glower up to the heavens themselves, Rudyard crosses his arms in a huff. "' _Fly a kite_ ', indeed."

With a last longing look at the door- which he knows full well won't open until Georgie deems it an acceptable amount of time since it closed- he turns on his heel, wistfully enjoying the last time his socks will be dry for the rest of the evening, and marches off into the night. To where, he hasn't the faintest idea. Slinking across the shadowed cobbles, dark and formless as one of their own, he simply lets his feet do the walking, and his brain do the sulking.

Until the rain seeps into his old shoes, that is. He thinks his feet are rather entitled to a good sulk, then.

 

* * *

 

 

Much as he did on eight legs a few days earlier, Rudyard bustles through the narrow streets boldly, seldom bothering to check for nonexistent vehicles. With Georgie likely still in the shop making her point and her motorbike locked up outside (which is to say, loosely strung to a lamppost with a shoelace- no one in Piffling would want to steal from Georgie, or dare to try if they did), the roads are predictably deserted. No hazards to worry about. And fortunately, no new 'friends' either.

" _Friends_ ," he scoffs, kicking a loose pebble- which turns out to be much less loose than anticipated and stubs his toe. "Ow! Blast. Blasted pebble. Blasted _Georgie_. Who the devil does she think she is? It's a bloody liberty. And _Madeleine_. Traitors, traitors all. I'm _perfectly_ fine _just_ the way I am, thank you very much. One doesn't get into the undertaking business to make _friends_. I've more important things on my mind, anyway." Such as _where was he going to build his bloody web, now_? He'd grown rather fond of that corner, but perhaps he should be looking just a tad further out of a certain meddling assistant's reach.

He's so immersed in his quiet fuming, and so foolishly confident in the streets being deserted, that he entirely fails to course correct in time to avoid hitting the one and only obstacle in his path.

" _Ow_!"

" _Oof_..."

He totters back dangerously, arms flailing. He'd always been a tad unsteady on his feet as a person, and a lack of practice wasn't helping matters. In fact, he's just about resigned himself to toppling into the gutter (with a promise to himself to _really_ enjoy the ensuing sulk) when a hand reaches out and steadies him before he loses his balance altogether.

"Woah! Steady on!"

Oh no. He knows that voice.

 _Just his bloody luck_.

He looks up at the source- or rather _glares_ up, force of habit- and finds himself _squinting_. Yes, squinting, in the middle of the night of all times, due to the semi expected, yet _utterly_ disarming, nigh on blinding glow of _sudden beauty_.

Eric, meddler extraordinaire, gives him a once over with his obnoxiously attractive baby blues. "God, I'm _so_ sorry, I didn't see you; are you alright? That could've been nasty."

Recovering hastily from the optical assault, Rudyard _harrumphs_ and swats at the hand- now _hands_ , actually, bit familiar- on his shoulders. " _Fine, thank you_ ," he says through gritted teeth, nearly tripping himself again in his eagerness to put some space between himself and... _that_.

The man seems entirely unfazed by his cold shoulder. "Are you sure? That was a bit of a stumble, sure you haven't twisted anything? I've got a bit of a physio background, I'd be happy to-"

"No, thank you," Rudyard says quickly, face flushing somewhat. He'll be bloody sure to tell it off later- dangle a bit of late night ankle-fondling by an attractive, obnoxious man in front of it and it blushes like a schoolgirl. Ridiculous. "Now, if you excuse me, I _really_ should be-"

"Do I know you?"

Rudyard freezes, wrong-footed and so absolutely certain that _he knows_ for an instant that he utterly forgets about his quick escape plan. "What?! No. No, I, I shouldn't think so, I just have... One of those faces. Two eyes, no pincers, perfectly forgettable. You must be thinking of someone-"

"You wouldn't... happen to be related to Antigone Funn, would you?"

Rudyard starts again, once more thrown for a loop; although by all accounts, being rumbled for a family resemblance should be far less surprising than being rumbled for an interspecies one. "Ah. Yes, yes. That's it, yes, that would be my sister."

Eric's face brightens, exuding so much sunny pleasantness it fills Rudyard with a powerful and primal urge to punch it. "I _thought_ so! Heh, those are some strong genes, eh? It's, ah, Rudyard, isn't it?"

Rudyard scowls- somehow, even his own _name_ sounds light and jovial in this wretched man's voice. "Yes." What he doesn't say is _our parents wasted no time in making our lives miserable_ , because it seems like it might be one of those inappropriate comments that Madeleine would tut at him for. "Now, if you'll excuse-"

"Well, nice to finally put a face to the name- I don't think I've caught one glimpse of you since I moved here! Keep to yourself? God, I envy you. Still, no rest for the wicked, eh?"

Rudyard couldn't have put his feelings about this very exchange better himself. " _Indeed_. Now, I really must be off. Goodnight."

"Oh! Right, yes, suppose it is rather late- back to Funn Funerals, is it?"

Now that he thinks about it, it is decidedly _odd_ that this strange new man should have any knowledge of their business, or any visual recollection of the elusive Antigone. But he's rather keen to escape this conversation, so he's quite happy for now to put it down to the Power of Nosiness and move on with his life. "Yes, yes, quite.”

“I'll walk with you.”

Rudyard goggles at him, bewildered as to how one person can be so entirely incapable of finding a hint when it's practically shoved in his nose. “No, no, that's quite al-”

“No, go on- I'm off the same way anyway! Come on; we might as well, eh?”

Rudyard, agog, fumbles for something to say that would satisfy Madeleine for politeness and comes up with: “... _must_ we?”

Eric laughs, a bright, rich noise as compelling and contagious as his voice (luckily, Funns were fully immunised against _mirth_ from an early age). “Ha, that's good! Antigone never told me you were funny. Honestly, the way she went on I was- and, uh, no offense- expecting you to be rather a bore.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Rudyard drones dejectedly as the exhausting man falls into step with him, evidently committed to bothering him a little longer.

“Another good one,” Eric chuckles, elbowing Rudyard’s arm. “Bet you're the life of the party, eh?”

Rudyard, bewildered by the cheerful words paired with the aggressive elbow attack, sniffs and glares ahead. “No.”

“No?”

“I don't go to- I don't _like_ parties.” He doesn't tend to get invited to them either, and really, who would want to be? Loud things.

“Ah. Fair enough, everybody's different,” says Eric with characteristic obnoxious friendliness. “What is it they say? Variety is the spice of life, something like that.”

He seems to be waiting for some kind of response. Maybe an agreement. But he seems like the kind of person who already has _far_ too many people agreeing with him all the time. “Hm,” he huffs instead, resisting the temptation to cross his arms petulantly. “I don't like spicy food.”

Eric laughs. Again.

Rudyard dearly wishes he wasn’t getting so accustomed to it.

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of the walk home is much the same; in that Eric talks _at_ Rudyard, and Rudyard makes a concerted effort to look like he _isn’t_ listening. Unfortunately Eric happens to say something actually rather witty about the reverend a couple of blocks in, and Rudyard can’t quite contain a grudging snort-laugh at the observation. Which, of course, only _encourages_ Eric, his eyes lighting up as he latches on and continues the theme in an attempt to repeat his success. Though his observations are, sadly, rather bloody hilarious, Rudyard keeps a much tighter lid on his mirth from then on. Last thing the man needs is any encouragement.

“Really? Not even a smile?” Eric teases, lightly elbowing him in a gesture that can only be described as _chummy._ “C’mon, that was a good one!”

It was, unfortunately, and one Rudyard would take great pleasure in repeating to Agatha Doyle’s face after the peril she’d placed him in. “Hmph.”

Eric rolls his eyes, slipping his hands in the pockets of of his disgustingly flattering blazer. “Alright, alright, enough of me. C’mon, you haven’t said a word since we started walking! Tell me about yourself.”

Rudyard blinks at him, and resists the impulse to ask _what on_ earth _for?!,_ as that would constitute an answer in itself.

Sighing, Eric smiles wryly. “Fine, well… how about I ask questions, and you answer?”

Rudyard squints. _That…_ sounds like a trap.

“...If you like?” he tags on diplomatically.

Hm. Still highly suspect. But, perhaps, relatively harmless. Eyeing Eric warily, he gives a short, jerky nod of assent.

Eric lights up in response, bronze cheeks dimpling in an obnoxiously sincere smile. “Terrific! Okay, questions, questions… what’s your… favourite band?”

“...Rubber.”

Eric snorts, shaking his head. “That’s not- nevermind. Okay, ah, favourite animal?”

 _That_ one’s much easier. “Mouse.” Of all the animals he’s encountered in his time- of which there must have been at least _four-_ Madeleine is by far the best conversationalist.

Eric seems surprised by that answer- and yet oddly charmed. “Oh! That’s… sweet, actually.” He’s moving hastily on before Rudyard can even think to unpack that bewildering statement. “Do you have any hobbies?”

“No.”

“Really, none at all?”

Rudyard scowls. “Next question.”

“Alright, alright, ah. Do you… have a girlfriend?”

He blushes. “...Next.”

Eric smirks, peering at his face a _tad_ too intently for his liking. “Boyfriend?” he suggests.

“Oh, look at that, I’m home,” he blurts, not _un_ truthfully- although he does have to pick up his pace in order to round to corner into the square. Just a power walk, absolutely _not_ a run of any kind, not that it matters. “Suppose I’ll be off, no point dilly-dallying, goodnight-”

“Wait, hang on!”

Rudyard jumps, not expecting to hear Eric’s voice so close. He must have jogged to catch up. So much for a quick getaway. He scowls over his shoulder at the man, as uninvitingly as physically possible.

Eric, glowing lightly from the exertion and hair miraculously unaffected, looks at Rudyard with something akin to remorse. An expression his face doesn’t seem all that used to forming. “I’m sorry. I was just curious, I didn’t mean to… I shouldn’t have pestered you.”

He sounds so genuinely regretful it makes it hard to be cross. Clever. _Devilish,_ but clever. “No. You shouldn’t have,” Rudyard responds haughtily, nose turned up somewhat. All the better to avoid direct contact with those disarming eyes.

“Sorry. I got a bit carried away- quite frankly, Rudyard, you’re the most interesting person I’ve met on this island.”

Rudyard blinks. Squints. Glances behind himself to check that there isn’t some _other_ Rudyard standing in the street behind him. Stares at Eric uncomprehendingly when he finds no such person.

Eric laughs quietly, shaking his head. And Rudyard, feeling silly and wrong-footed and unable to discern exactly _why,_ turns hastily on his heel to make a break for the safety of Funn Funerals, where his human companions are suitably antagonistic and where life makes a modicum of bloody sense.

“Will I see you again?” Eric calls out behind him, sounding optimistic in a way that only further confuses Rudyard.

“Not bloody likely…” he mutters, fumbling with the door. It yields, thank _heavens-_ Georgie must have ceased her petty vigil.

“Oh, uh, well- goodnight, then! Enjoy yourse-!”

Rudyard slams the door on him before he can finish the accursed catchphrase.

He falls back against it a moment, heaving a sigh of relief. Then, with an air of finality akin to nails in a coffin, draws the sturdy old bolts to lock the outside world where it bloody belongs; outside, away from him, all of its… _complications_ kept safely at bay.

And then he double checks the window latches. Just to be certain.

On checking one, however, he finds his gaze level with a small tear in the curtains. Or perhaps it’s a moth hole. Unsurprising in either case- the things must be at least as old as he is. And through that tear he catches a glimpse of a too-familiar head of perfect blonde hair. Just the back of it as the body beneath embarks on its convivial stroll across the square, hand emerging from blazer pocket with a key which he slips directly into the door of the building across the street. New red bricks and tasteful potted plants, and a sign glowing over Eric’s golden head like a halo.

Rudyard blanches.

_“Chapman!”_

Of course. Of _bloody_ course. Eric, professional busybody. Chapman, business rival and funeral hijacker. Eric _bloody_ Chapman, bane of Rudyard’s _bloody_ existence. Oh, that _scoundrel._ That stupid, egregious, arrogant, conniving, pretty, shifty, devious, beautiful, unscrupulous, charming, gorgeous, funny, gentle-!

... _Bugger._

“ _Make some friends,_ she says _,”_ he grumbles to the empty room, taking effort even in solitude to hide the blush on his cheeks. “Bloody inconvenient.”

 

* * *

 

 

From her tasteful porch, Madeleine watches Rudyard’s blush and ensuing fumbling with interest. She gets up from her cocktail stick rocking chair, and disappears briefly into the hole in the skirting board she calls home.

She reemerges moments later with enthusiasm and a brand new pencil.

A handsome stranger? A forbidden romance? An antihero’s icy veneer melted by the power of love and unprecedented chemisty?

She may be ‘twee’, but she’s no fool; and she knows literary gold when she sees it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It begiiiiiiiiins! The rivalry! The tension! The drama! And hopefully it shall continue.... sometime this side of 2020 xD
> 
> If you read this I'd love to hear your thoughts, but I understand if you're waiting til it's not in WIP limbo.
> 
> Until next time! ^^


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